BY MRS. HENRIETTA L. COLEMAN.
———
I watched a rose, one lovely morn,
Parade herself a summer queen,
While by her side a bud, new-born,
Lay locked in leaves of softest green:
As that fresh bud to beauty blew,
That rose lost all its scent and hue:
Alas! I cried, that this should be!—
For I thought, dear boy, of thee and me.